when you grow up,
what will you be?
I always wished
to be food for the trees

to not have to suffer
for one more night,
but it's been a year
and I guess I'm alright.

my body still moves,
but someone else pulls the strings
my brain is too rotten
to bother with those things.

the roots grow out
from under my eyes.
do the flowers smell nice?
do you love their lies?

to become a puppet,
doesn't it hurt?
not when you are piloted
by mother earth.

she took away the molecules
that made me feel good,
now there is a blank face
under the hood.

the decomposing me
can no longer feel,
and yet I still have
the power to heal.

the power to give,
and give, and give,
is that truly
my reason to live?

sunny daffodil blooms
are still months away,
maybe that's a good thing
if you know what they say.

you can't swallow poison
if there's nothing to eat,
you can't be a victim
if you retreat.

you can't see the cracks
in the mirror that spread
if you stay locked up
within your own head.

rolled down windows
blow cold winter air.
where are we going?
I don't really care.

snow speckled hands
catching the sky,
laughing and singing
and feeling so high.

the radio plays languages
I don't understand
but that doesn't matter
when I'm holding your hand.

I want to get lost
on those foreign roads
I want to be buried
where nobody goes.

what happens when
a hug
turns into hands that grasp
claws that tear
wings that smother
into silence?

what happens when
cotton candy clouds
and imaginary laughter
rot and drip
forming fetid pools
under the eyes?

Bubblegum and mania,
glitter and hate.
The girl in heart shaped glasses
just can’t wait.

Fly you up to heaven
on candy pink wings,
drop you when she gets tired
of you telling her things.

When she’s not feeling high
she takes a trip to hell,
the devil beats her up
and gives her pills to get well.

Brimstone in her left hand
and roses in her right,
settling in with a bottle
of liquor for the night.

Looking for the ones who want
manic pixie dreams,
looking for the one
who will have the sweetest screams.

what happens to thoughts unsaid,
buried deep within god's head
do they feel their restraints grow tight
do they wish they could take flight?

what happens to books unwritten,
songs not sung and poems hidden
do they die a horrible death
with their maker's final breath?

what happens to people unseen
sneaking under midnight's sheen
while they run on soft fox paws
do they sense the waiting jaws?

what happens to the paper trees
when they catch a fiery breeze?
do they know this is the end?
do they know they can't try again?

I wish I could survive
on sunlight alone,
carrying liquid joy
deep into my home.
A crystal of warmth
to dry up my tears,
cooking my brain,
denature my fears.